Now in Joppa there was a
disciple whose name was Tabitha, which in Greek is Dorcas. She was devoted to
good works and acts of charity. At that time she became ill and died. When they
had washed her, they laid her in a room upstairs.
Since Lydda was near Joppa,
the disciples, who heard that Peter was there, sent two men to him with the
request, “Please come to us without delay.” So Peter got up and went with them;
and when he arrived, they took him to the room upstairs. All the widows stood
beside him, weeping and showing tunics and other clothing that Dorcas had made
while she was with them.
Peter put all of them
outside, and then he knelt down and prayed. He turned to the body and said,
“Tabitha, get up.” Then she opened her eyes, and seeing Peter, she sat
up. He gave her his hand and helped her up. Then calling the saints and
widows, he showed her to be alive.
This became known
throughout Joppa, and many believed in the Lord.
***
Like Tabitha, there was a
disciple whose name was Monument Presbyterian Church, in Monument Oregon, and she was
devoted to good works and acts of charity. At some point, a dozen years ago,
she became ill, and recently, the Presbytery of Eastern Oregon, the church’s
regional governing body, declared her dead. They vulgarly washed her body as
hurried strangers to the deceased, and with the formality of finances laid
claim to everything from her steeple to her sidewalk. The Presbytery told her
beloved to sell off their memorials, like an inheritance they wouldn’t receive
after her last Word.
But four disciples, from the
congregation in Monument, came to Presbytery with a request, “Please come to us
without delay.” So a handful of us, both pastors and laity, got up and went
with them. We woke early and drove roads few of us had traveled, winding
farther and farther from inhabited places, to spaces so stretched out we
imagined hours of school bus rides to join a mere classroom of children. We saw
the winter’s thaw turning grasses green and smatterings of flowers challenging
the season to turn back cold. We went, some of us without expectation, some
with, but I believe in all there was a hope, a hope to find life, and a prayer
that Christ was abundant in that church.
Driving into the village of
less than two-hundred everything in Monument seemed old, from the boarded up
restaurant on the corner, to the well groomed lawn and its twisted lilacs vines
beside a tiny house. On the hills and the edges of town larger homes spoke of
the profits of ranching that happen over generations, and you could see in that
valley, where the life and death both laid their claim.
We pulled up to the church,
whose simple white structure and black trim echoed the places where God speaks
in language so classically American and Christian, it is as elementary as the
flag and the cross. In like manner, we were received with handshakes and
introductions, and history as alive as a man in his nineties with two canes,
standing up for his church with a smile of welcome as big as the roughness of
his hands, which, with others, built the wooden church fifty years ago in this
former lumber-mill town.
We, the new delegates from
Presbytery, walked in like family, not first to the sanctuary, but through back
door - propped open which lead into the kitchen and to a table - set with red
checkered material and bright yellow cloth daisies as a centerpiece. Behind the
table, gherkins and tuna salad, sandwiches and coleslaw, peaches and brownies
were spread next to a bowl of ice and a pitcher of cool tea, as coffee dripped
warm in the kitchen. I thought, the dead don’t cook like this, they don’t set tables,
they don’t welcome you with the firmness of a handshake from his ninety or the
church's fifty years. Maybe Peter, noticed something like that. That Tabitha
too, breathed with the Spirit.
They took us upstairs to the
Monday school room, where after the elementary was let out children used to run
down and form a line to ring the church bell before Bible stories. In this same
room, Don, a man now older than my parents, once sat on knotty pine benches, at
knotty pine tables, in a knotty pine room and still years later could recite
not only Bible verses but those stewards of his faith, the teachers of his
youth. In the doorframe hung a mobile of what looked like the solar-system made
with paper-plate, yarn and foam balls, a specimen from last summer's Vacation Bible School
run by the church who uses the Presbyterian building. From my work doing crafts
at Vacation Bible School, I knew, if the church was dead, these Crayola paint
projects would be easily tossed but instead, I too have held on to construction
paper lizards and watercolor cards months past their prime. Likewise, this
little solar system, hung there for that kid, or their parent, to find it and
take it home. There was hope and life hanging in that doorway.
The sanctuary was immaculate,
with that same knotty pine and old rectangular windows seeping in the spring
green and blue sky from outside. In the chancel, music stands were placed
evenly as Christian soldiers. Flanked by a grand piano and a projector they
commanded a space for Sunday singing, a chorus of
witness that would not die. Don opened the sanctuary door, as I imagine he's
done on so many Sundays, and stepping out, hand comfortably resting on the
railing, he looked out toward fresh cut grass and newly poured sidewalk which
mimicked the dining table's welcome. The dead don’t mow their lawn, the dead
don't pour new sidewalk. The dead don't swing open their doors.
These few congregants, like
Tabitha's widows, were afraid we had come, like those before, to declare her
dead and make arrangements. But like Paul, our sheer coming was a prayer
expecting life. "Tabitha get up!" "Monument Church
get up." You were never dead.
Then she opened her eyes, and
seeing Peter, and seeing us, she sat up. We stretched out our hand and began to
help Monument Presbyterian up. The congregants rose with new ideas of hosting a
fellowship hour for the current church, of hosting a community event for the
young people who have so little to do in the town, of quarterly worship in
homes with communion and an invitation to the Presbytery to moderate session,
they dreamed of baseball games out on the lawn, and moments where her children
might come in once again ring the bell that signifies life.
Paul, calling the saints and
widows, showed Tabitha to be alive. Likewise, we will go back to Presbytery,
and we will tell them that we found her, Monument Presbyterian Church, to be
alive. Tabitha’s raising became known throughout Joppa, and many believed in
the Lord. And I imagine, years from now, the faith of those congregant widows,
the prayers of Presbytery’s Peter, and the strength of Tabitha - Monument
Presbyterian Church will be known throughout the whole valley, where they will
continue to open their doors, and do good works and acts of charity.
